Weapons of Cancel Culture: Woke Dentistry — The dark side of American dentistry of lost lives and careers for prosthetic dental patients.: Weapons of Cancel Culture, #1

By Kenneth Spruce

"I think we have gotten very comfortable discarding human beings, immediately tossing them away and making them irredeemable characters." — Trevor Noah, host "Daily Show," on "Awards Circuit" podcast.

 

Many books have been written about cancel culture in the last few years. A clear majority of American adults, according to most polls, just want cancel culture to go away on its own. Ex-presidents, celebrities and politicians have all weighed in to appeal to them to lay down their arms. Many well-intentioned writers have asked us to just practice better citizenship and be kinder to each other. Others believe it is an online-only problem — a threat from afar.

 

But the author experienced the real cancel culture and discovered that cancel culture operatives work with woke dentists to target, cancel, shame and ostracize prosthetic dental patients. So, this author believes the better way to deal with cancel culture may include:

• Allow Americans to hear detailed firsthand accounts of the atrocities committed by cancel culture from survivors.
• Find the cancel culture operatives and show their faces in public and shame them.
• Involve law enforcement using evidence from victims and their injuries.

This is a whistleblower memoir book series about woke dentistry. Woke dentistry is what happens when a dentist works in the interest of cancel culture, and forcibly or secretly takes photos of targeted patients in the middle of surgery to be handed to cancel culture and social media to end the patient's life. Those images are first shared with the patient's employer and co-workers to disrupt the workplace and demand the patient's job loss. The images are also doxed to social media and to various public spaces world-wide through location-tracking technologies until the public backlash and threats causes the dental patient to lose their will to live or live on the edge of suicide!

 

This is indeed the book series to finally end woke dentistry in America. In this first episode:

• The dental mafia arrives at the author's workplace with content from a woke dentist to demand the author's job, and eventually career loss.
• Discover how cancel culture secretly mobilizes social media mobs in different cities who work in hotels, restaurants, grocery stores to attack canceled individuals.
• Hear the details of how cancel culture uses GPS, spyware and satellites based tracking to eavesdrop on and track victims looking for new jobs after their cancel culture job loss.
• Discover the intriguing story of how cancel culture tracked the author to a hiring manager at a Big 5 high-tech firm in Reston, Virginia then derailed his job offer by sharing surgery images from a woke dentist!
• Learn how the smartphone is exploited by cancel culture to engage in prodigious shenanigans and illegality.
• Discover the incredible methods such as bait-and-switch, and the virtual job denial teams they use to prevent a canceled individual from ever landing a new job.
• Discover how cancel culture helped woke operatives and onlookers who work at the TSA, Amtrak, and various airports car rental, restaurants and hotels live-tracked the author.
• Hear the intriguing details of how city and neighborhood racial demographics affect the nature of cancel culture mob attacks.
• Find out how the author battled woke mobs in Washington, DC, Dallas and various other cities.
• Hear how cancel culture mob employees who worked at a major rental car company welcomed the author at LAX airport.
• Did you know that every time anyone uses Google Maps to locate restaurants or anything else the information is also relayed to cancel culture operatives or mobs which helps them forward deploy trolls and harassers ahead of the victim's arrival?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blissful BlankPage Press, LLC
• Release date: Apr 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9781963312003

Book preview

Preface

Cancel culture came for me inside a woke dental chair, and a wonderfully unexpected thing happened!

They told me there would be no privacy and no secrets in cancel culture’s America. I begrudgingly agreed. Then I wrote a memoir book series to tattle on cancel culture’s own secrets and go public about who they are and everything that happened during my cancel saga. My aim was to educate the public and save other lives from cancel culture’s reign of terror inside some American dental chairs!

In this whistleblower memoir, I decided not to descend into the same gutters from where they wantonly shared and destroyed my name and image in public spaces and turned me into a meme and a terminal creature. I decided to not share the names and descriptions of individuals, the regular people—the street trolls and hecklers—I encountered in public spaces. I offer most of them the privacy and anonymity they never accorded to me. In its place, I instead share the gender and race of the people I encountered during the cancel saga to help the fidelity of the story. But if law enforcement should ask for details, then I shall provide more information to them to corroborate the detailed account of this memoir.

I wrote this memoir book series in the hope of saving the lives of other unsuspecting dental patients who walk into death traps that woke dentists arbitrarily set to catch and destroy bad dental patients. The use of cancel culture in woke dentistry to shame before ending the lives of these patients is unfair and should be illegal because of the end-of-life outcomes. And they are getting paid to end those lives. I have seen the look on their faces when they make the decision to end a patient’s life! Because I was right in the middle of it as I sat in the dental chair at their mercy, having removed my prosthetics, and do not want another human being to go through it.

The memoir book series aims to protect current and future generations of Americans who unfortunately loose some of their teeth and have to wear dental prosthetics. The book series will hopefully end woke dentistry and restore trust inside American dental chairs. These books also detail how to respond when cancel culture woke dentists attack them inside the dental chair. My memoir will share details of how some woke dentists use waterboarding methods to force patients to close their eyes while they take photos of their face and mouths for cancel culture to use to end their lives through permanent job loss, denial of access to resources, public hate and threats, and privacy-violating permanent surveillance and control of their lives.

Sharing the astounding details of cancel culture’s exploits in American woke dentistry will help good Americans see the horrors of the dental mafia who went to American dental schools but turned out to be attempted murderers-by-suicide of their own patients! Some also fraudulently overcharge patients out of spite, and also use temporary dental materials in a malicious attempt to financially ruin the patients, knowing they will need another surgery in a few months! So, I hope to expose these monsters and the mafia-like tactics they use inside some dental offices that target their own patients and strip them of any privacy or dignity during the surgery when they are most vulnerable.

I also hope my memoir book series can help protect regular Americans with good teeth from ever being canceled for any other reason in their lives. By sharing the weapons they possess in destroying lives, all Americans should now be able to spot cancel culture’s operatives, employee-operatives, and the dangers they pose. Sharing the faces of cancel culture I hope will help break the fear people have for these monsters.

I expect this memoir to draw the attention of law enforcement, dental boards, and law makers to the wanton atrocities that individual woke dentists commit, driven by the abuse of power over privacy in dentistry in cancel culture’s America. With evidence from surviving CCTV videos and the names or descriptions of the thousands of operatives and testimony from onlooker witnesses I met at the prospective employers, hotels, restaurants, shops, neighborhoods, and streets to collaborate the story, I hope law enforcement can make arrests where they believe laws were broken. The fight against cancel culture needs an equal and opposite powerful force of the law in order to vanquish it using detailed victim stories like mine.

Finally, I wanted the memoir book series of my life in cancel culture purgatory to demonstrate the extent of injuries suffered by a silent segment of vulnerable Americans in the hands of rogue entitled dentists so they could never again hurt future generations of dental patients. I could see a future of other dental patients bringing lawsuits quicker before statues of limitations expire based on my memoir book series without having to live through thirteen years of brutality after departing a woke dental office to discover the latent injuries or death caused by their woke dentists!

While still nursing my psychological scars today from my street battles with cancel culture, I realize now in the last months of finishing the book series that the greater tragedy would've been not sharing my story. Not protecting current and future unsuspecting victims, not warning so many other vulnerable people about the deadly weapons of cancel culture!

Introduction

The cool, early summer late afternoon breeze in 2012 had coaxed pleasant thoughts and feelings as I drove from work to a neighborhood supermarket I had spotted earlier at lunchtime. I’d already registered a perfect day in the imaginary ephemeral diary I kept in my mind despite the unexpected and strange encounter at lunchtime a few hours earlier.

The grocery store was located close to where I was working on a temporary assignment as a borrowed resource for a federal government project in Washington, DC. I was an IT consultant. That means I assist customers in improving their business performance by ensuring their expensive computers stay up for longer to exceed their expectations. Normally, I’d take the train into the city from my home in the Virginia suburbs—the Orange Line train specifically. It must’ve been a federal holiday that day because those were the only days when I would feel comfortable and sane enough to consider driving that enervating commute into Washington, DC.

The city—much like London—largely frowned upon vehicular traffic of private citizens in the city center. And who could blame them? A vehicular accident on the George Washington Memorial Parkway from the Virginia suburbs into the city could easily cost over two hours of traffic logjam to drivers.

I thought it would be better to spend part of the evening rush hour in a grocery store, to pass the time and let the peak traffic subside a bit. I made a right turn and descended into the below-ground parking lot of a large building that housed the store on the first floor. The dim lighting inside the basement seemed to contrast the bright, sunny, late afternoon outside.

During those years, I was desperately struggling to lose weight, so in addition to going to fitness centers, I welcomed small opportunities, like parking furthest away in parking lots, just so I could walk longer distances. Therefore, I found a spot close to the entrance and parked. As I headed toward the elevator in the farthest corner of the lot, I saw a familiar face. It was a director-level executive who worked with me on the same federal project but on a different team. We had seen each other enough times in the hallways to warrant a passing greeting. I smiled and nodded at him in greeting, but he ignored me, quickly looking away with a sharp disdain. I dismissed it as a high-stress worker having a bad day. Perhaps he mistook me for someone else in the darkened basement, or maybe he was uncomfortable connecting with another man in the dark depths of a parking lot. I didn't know what else to think. However, that seemingly benign encounter would soon serve as a harsh prelude to sinister disclosures that were already circulating at my workplace. It would soon lead to my reassignment from the federal project and, eventually, the loss of my job and career.

I reached the elevator in the corner and pressed the button to restore my confidence. As I rode upstairs, I adjusted my shirt collar—in the fuzzy mirror, forged by the polished metal walls inside the elevator—to ensure it lay neatly atop my new suit jacket. My role in the project required client executive interactions, so I justified a wardrobe upgrade for that project.

As the elevator door opened, the thickness of the redolent air immediately engulfed me. Where is that open kitchen? I had thought. The smells were complex and yet unmistakably rich in the seductive aromas of cooking. The scents were familiar ones you may recognize, not much different from any upscale grocery store with in-store dining, like at Whole Foods at lunchtime. Except I was in a smaller space, and therefore, the aromas were more pungent and intoxicating. And they lingered. Whatever was on the menu had strong blends of Italian sauces, Asian spices, the sweetness of baking, and perhaps enthralling international dishes, I surmised. Each step I took brought on a zig of spice, and just when you slowed to take it in, it would zag you with a whiff of sweet bakery.

I could see the in-store dining area of the store in a far corner to the left. It was one of those high-end stores that had been custom designed to befit the surrounding upscale neighborhood. Those high-end stores would usually have quality building materials, from the floors to the exposed industrial ceilings. Even the uniformed employees, the colors, and the neat row of aisles shouted bespoke. It all seemed well-orchestrated for a happy and memorable customer experience. It was also the type of place designed to separate undisciplined customers quickly from their money.

I instinctively slowed down in a gulp, to enjoy the smells longer, as I noticed the bank of checkout lanes with customers in lines and smiling employees. I could see the in-store diners immersed in fondling their smartphones, while the food cooled below their chins. The row of cell phone-toting dining customers seemed as if showing off a cell phone had been an important requirement for being served a meal. They clung onto them in their prayerful palms. Straight ahead of me were two store aisles, but the bulk of the rest of the store hid to my right.

Before I made a right turn to the rest of the store, I noticed three of the employees still maintaining the smiles I had noticed just a few seconds earlier. They were all female African American employees. Those natural glances of looking at the new customer entering the store had turned into enthralled gazes. So, I looked back to confirm my thoughts, and then I looked around me to see if there could be anyone else around who held their interest. There wasn't. I was the only person they could look at.

I continued to walk into the rest of the store, hoping to disappear. To be sure, I quickly looked back again at those employees. One had broken her gaze for a moment and was looking back up just then. The rest never took their eyes off me. Because they were female, my thoughts immediately shifted from them offering exemplary customer service to them admiring my new suit, perhaps my haircut. Then it hit me: the fly on my pants could be open. So, I quickly looked down to check. Everything seemed intact down below.

Soon, that backward glance brought something else, more ominous. Behind those silly gazes, I sensed mockery. They were no longer smiles at all. Their eyes screamed it a million times over. What could be wrong? My confident, bold strides into the back end of the store soon lost some pep. I had slowed to a self-examination. Something was wrong.

As I reached the grocery area, I noticed a few other employees at the back who also recognized me, but they were busy with their work, so their stares were more furtive glances with eyes that also signaled more derision than smiles. It seemed they were all expecting me to be there at that very moment. It was as if someone had pre-announced my arrival just minutes before. I tried to focus on what I came into the store for. I couldn't remember a single thing, as my mind flooded with a search for answers.

To regain composure and remember the items I needed to purchase, I employed my old grocery store recall trick of picking up either a vegetable or fruit and using it as a prop to jog my memory. It always worked for me. Instead of wandering around like a dunce trying to remember my shopping list, I would evaluate a fruit or vegetable like a regular person. During the evaluation, I'd visualize my kitchen and mentally inventory the contents of my fridge and counters from the last time I saw them, looking for items that needed replenishing. It bought me about forty-five seconds of calm. It was enough time to recollect the items I came to the store to buy. That second group of employees in the back helped make one thing clear to me: all the employees who mocked me were African American. So, I focused only on the Caucasian-looking employees for the rest of my time in the store. I looked at their faces to see if they recognized me as well. They didn't. They went about their work normally. None of them gave me a second look or gaped like the other employees. I finished up and left the store with the same snide stares as my welcome from the same three employees in the front area.

That grocery store incident in 2012 would be the first of an avalanche of overt, and increasingly vicious, sometimes near-violent public encounters that would bring me to suicide contemplation years later. Meanwhile, I obviously assessed what had just happened at that store. Could they possibly have mistaken me for someone else? Not likely, because a few hours earlier, while at lunch with my colleagues, I had also noticed an overly animated group of African American employees who seemed to also gape at me. I had quickly dismissed the encounter as peppy customer service delivery. However, I obviously couldn't ignore two incidents of public recognition on the same day. It bothered me for quite some time longer.

But luckily, the answers came before the end of my project in the city. All my work was local to the Washington, DC, northern Virginia, and Baltimore areas. It brought a fresh phase because I had had a hankering for local gigs with little or no travel for the final couple of decades of my career. That project was also an opportunity to continue my work in an emerging technology area called cloud computing. It promised a new way of using computer systems more efficiently and realizing business outcomes even more quickly. It was a time when enterprises, including the federal government in 2011, had begun to consider transitioning their computer systems to that new and more beneficial way of using them. And I was excited to be in the thick of it.

Yet another incident in the city of Washington, DC, would soon provide answers to questions from the first couple of incidents. It would finally reveal to me the fact that I was likely being followed, or that something was wrong with me that exposed and endangered me in public spaces.

One day after work, not too long after that grocery store incident, I was driving home via one of the many road tunnels underneath the city. I noticed a car blaring its horn behind me. I looked in the rearview mirror, but it was too dark to see the occupants in the dimly lit roadway tunnel. I wondered why they wouldn't just pass me to the empty left lane. So, I maneuvered into the left lane to give them a chance to pass. As we both exited the tunnel, their vehicle quickly sped to my right, pulling level, then held and hung on my passenger side window for several moments. I glanced over quickly. It was a car full of young black women, actually teenagers. They seemed to recognize me, with some glee. I became suspicious, because they couldn't possibly have known me or met me anywhere, given their age.

I would soon confirm my hunch when I noticed that they laced their enthusiasm with mockery. They waved at me to stop. Then, they would flout heartily again, shouting likely taunting words inaudibly into the wind out of their open car windows, and would ask me again to stop in various unrehearsed and confusing flagging motions. My windows were rolled up and I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I ignored the pantomime and tuned to focus on the traffic around me to ensure there were no other vehicles immediately to my left that could be the true target of those attention-grabbing gestures from the girls. But I was already in the leftmost lane. That meant I was the true and only target of the rumpus. All of this happened at a recklessly frenetic traffic pace that brought me a sense of haunting haziness to the encounter that stayed with me for years. Whatever they intended looked nasty and dangerous to me, so I stopped my neck-whipping head movements to focus on the busy rush hour traffic the rest of the way.

The worst of the traffic was coming up ahead at the splits back to Washington, DC, Maryland, and the southern Virginia suburbs of Alexandria and beyond. I chose my exit onto the George Washington Parkway, heading towards the other side of Virginia—Tyson's Corner. I looked back again to see if they would follow me towards Tyson's and the rest of the Virginia suburbs, but they had disappeared. It is likely they continued back into Washington, DC.

The George Washington Parkway is one of my favorite stretches of roadway in the DMV area of Virginia, Maryland, and Washington, DC. It is a heavily wooded and elevated stretch of roadway that provides glimpses of the Potomac River below in certain areas closer to the city. It always calms me during daunting commutes. For a few miles toward Virginia on that parkway, looking across the river to the densely wooded embankment, the few brick buildings dotting above the forest seemed to resemble a four-layered cake—of greenish brown river and embankment, forest green, clay bricks, and blue sky. It cut the image of a delicious arrangement of a multilayered cake that only jaded rush hour drivers could appreciate. The parkway also offers small parks or coves over the river that serve as lookout points. I’d only stopped twice in the many years I’d lived in the area to enjoy those views.

But secretly, I boiled for understanding. All I wanted to do after the commotion with the girls was to stop at the side of the road and get out of the car. I needed to stop to think and breathe properly. My chest felt heavy, as my mind seemed to race ahead of my body. I was drowning in my own thoughts, trying to explain my day. The encounter left me torn, as replays of scenes from the grocery store encounter also came flooding in. But it was getting dark, and I continued the rest of the drive home in a fog. I realized, with some trepidation, that the incident of the chortling African American servers at lunchtime and the derisive checkout area employees at the grocery were not cases of mistaken identity. There was a connection between all of those incidents.

I had a long night, wondering what could be wrong. I remember thinking I must have had a bout of indiscretion in a hotel room somewhere that a hidden camera secretly recorded. And now they were making it public. However far-fetched, I needed to embrace that scenario to explain it all, to help stop the mental jog, to help me reclaim my senses and my life.

For the rest of my time on the federal project, I noticed special attention from my African American colleagues, which eventually rippled slowly to the rest of the other employees. People always seemed to recognize me not long after entering a deli or a restaurant at lunchtime. It would only happen in the city of Washington, DC, but not in the shops in the Virginia suburbs where I lived. At least not yet in 2012, as I remembered it. So, I ignored it all in those early years as cases of mistaken identity, even though it gnawed at me.

Part One

Cancel Job and Home Losses

Chapter 1

My Life Before CC Punctured It

In the year 2012, my life was very simple. It revolved around my job. I had imposed more working hours on myself than most because I felt that being more knowledgeable than the next guy in emerging technologies was the only way to stay competitive in my IT field full of smart, high achievers. So, I put in more hours of private learning beyond the already crazy regular working hours.

On weekends after 2011, I took online courses to improve my skills, with the eventual goal of earning multiple technical certifications in that new technology area of cloud computing. I was older and wiser and preferred and enjoyed the quietude of indulging in safer hobbies like long walks and reading. I had just transitioned from a job role that required a lot of traveling to one with opportunities to work locally in the metropolitan area around Washington, DC, called the DMV. I was glad for it as it would help me slow down after twenty years of work-related travel. I dealt with the stresses of working life with quick trips to local fitness centers whenever possible, topped with three-hour walks on the Washington and Old Dominion Railroad Regional Park trail, called the W&OD trail, on the weekends.

The trail was a pedestrian walk-run-bike and rollerblade track that stretched from Washington, DC, into the Virginia exurbia. I looked forward to the open spaces and the deer that roamed the thicket along the trail, who would look up as I slowed to admire them. A few times, I had wished they were dogs instead so that they would recognize me as a frequent visitor. Then there would be the occasional almost-stepped-on small snake, predictably sunning along the small creeks and bridges that gave the trail its bucolic charm. I never liked snakes, but I enjoyed the reliability of always finding them when I looked for them on the trail. I would soon count on that seemingly insignificant stroke of reliability that trail offered in the pillage of the impending years when my life would take an ominous turn.

On the dating front, there was no buzz in those years. My last date, faintly remembered, came at the end of a three-year relationship in November 2009. Dating was hard to fit in as I focused on re-skilling in new areas for my late career renaissance and on my new local customers. Sometimes, I stewed secretly, trying to justify failed relationships from years of business travel. Whenever I heard of another IT worker from my business network whose marriage was in trouble or divorced, I would briefly regret my choice of profession. It was a sick and shameful feeling, but in those moments, I wondered how the dark corners of the human heart seemed to have a mind of their own, one that I had to fight to control. I loved my line of work and the constant need for skill upgrades, yet I hated myself for it. I lived about thirty miles away from what I believed to be my potential dating pool.

I avoided dating sites, believing they were more suited to younger crowds and that relationships formed on the ether would eventually face the same if not greater challenges than those formed in the real world. I once made an interesting observation to a friend, suggesting that the high cost of living in the Washington, DC, region forced most people there to get married in order to live comfortably. And the single and younger people shared living quarters with roommates to survive. These broad-brush untruths sometimes spiced up conversations among friends and secretly made me feel better about my own life.

Over the years, I had cultivated friendships on both sides of the Potomac River—in Maryland and Virginia. I noticed that as I aged, my circle of friends naturally shrank, much like bodily muscle, especially after turning fifty. The decline in my network of friendly relations would turn out to be something more precipitous and sinister than I initially thought, regularly pulling me back to recall and deal with the significance of the traffic encounter with the girls from the Washington, DC, tunnel.

Meanwhile, you likely guessed that spending time on social media had never been a pastime for me. I had a lukewarm relationship with it at best. I listened to people over the years extol the delights of social media platforms. Then, years later, I would listen as people lamented the petty bickering, crowded loneliness, and damaged friendships that came with social media. I heard the frustration of people trying to delete their accounts when they no longer desired to be a part of it. I couldn't see the value of social media beyond career networking, dating sites, and perhaps sharing experiences about important things like travel destinations. I never lived on traditional social media (although I eventually created a WhatsApp account to stay in touch with kids in my life). Especially the aesthetic side of people posting personal photos or vacations, because I believed it was a younger person’s game. I always disliked how people only shared the bright side of their lives, never the warts.

After logging off, they still had to deal with the uncomfortable realities of life and the need for independent thought. The groupthink mentality that social media engendered was especially odious to me.

In the summer of 2020, young comedian Peter Davidson of SNL fame even lamented in a YouTube video on the celebrity hot wings eating interviewing show, Hot Ones, that the one thing he didn’t like about social media was the groupthink mentality and how it quietly controlled its residents. It allowed the loudest voices to drown out everyone else, even the least knowledgeable yet loudest members of the community, who would befog and wrest the intelligent and reasoned ones into a conspiracy morass. On the other hand, the positive aspect of social media was allowing uninformed voices to coexist with other informed human beings who shared a common interest in a subject. And those relationships would not be determined by their position or job title, but simply as human beings. And I enjoyed watching it all from the sidelines.

In time, I noticed in the 2010s how social media seemed to be losing that happy coexistence of all opinions—the equity of thought and respectful differences for the sake of human connections that characterized the novelty of the early years. Soon, fissures started to appear. I began hearing about something called the angry mob, and people were growing afraid to share their personal views. Stories emerged of individuals getting roasted for their views. My unwilling participation on social media failed to prevent the coming cataclysmic turn of events in my life, after the revelations at the awakening in the store in Washington, DC. Not being in a personal relationship would inadvertently offer the flexibility I needed to fight the sudden targeting and invasion of my life that I never saw coming. It offered the nimbleness I needed to confront, a great evil that openly punctured the sanctity of the hushed and peaceful routines in my life. I suddenly found myself picking up pieces of a shattering life, but for years could never understand why.

I loved and was fascinated with computers from an early age, so I had worked on a path to getting into the IT profession. It was the allure and likely the pursuit of the mystery of those blinking lights on those massive mainframe computers from reruns of sci-fi movies and TV shows like Mission: Impossible and the early years of the TV crime show Mannix that helped solidify my career path. I remember making many trips to my local library to learn about what made those lights blink.

While at the library, I would also try to learn about the space program. The moon landing would quietly define Americanness for me at an early age. So, a career in technology would naturally bring a sense of positivity and fulfillment for me. I enjoyed going to work every day, sometimes not knowing where the solutions to problems would come from, but having the faith that they would come somehow. I loved the nervous excitement of IT work, knowing that a good day would come only from my own ingenuity combined with the contributions of my colleagues. Unfortunately, it was also a profession that forced one to think about solutions outside of the workplace—those shower solutions that